


Bread

by Ann7121



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 17:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ann7121/pseuds/Ann7121
Summary: Post GP





	Bread

Bread.

Even though the sun was shining, he was cold. On this day, he could never really get warm. Memories, shards of ice, entered his blood stream spreading their chill throughout his body. Ordinary tasks, dressing, washing, deciding what to eat, were hard to do. His knees and back ached fiercely and a dragging tiredness rested on his shoulders like a cloak. He felt old and unusually for him, without direction. The sadness, gathered at the corners of his eyes, set up home there, refusing to dispel itself in tears. Listlessly he gazed out of the window. Even the flowers she had planted failed to cheer.

Tomorrow he promised himself he would find the strength to re-engage in the virtual world he had created with Orac, a world where he was useful and his compromised health and mobility were not an issue. Liberator.com, his website, offered advice, support and information to all rebels, active and aspiring, encouraging non-violent protest and civil disobedience. Here you could learn about peaceful ways to undermine the Federation: how legally to avoid paying taxes, or illegally introduce viruses into computer systems. If you wanted to know where the next protest march was to take place, Liberator.com had the information. Members could obtain the formula for the antidote to Pylene 50, systems upgrade designs for their computers, bespoke 'gadget' blue-prints which would improve their chances of survival. They could post requests, describe successful campaigns, support new rebels, suggest ways to foil interrogators. Each member was vetted thoroughly by Orac prior to acceptance and because Orac regularly switched the route of its transmissions, piggy backing the signals through different Federation channels, so far their location had not been detected and the repeated Federation attempts to shut them down had been unsuccessful. 

There were at least forty urgent requests waiting his attention; requests from veteran leaders who relied on his technical support and strategic advice and from eager young rebels, just starting out on a journey that he would use every ounce of his experience to make less dark. 

But not today. He couldn't be bothered with them at the moment. He was drained of energy; even breathing seemed an effort.

***  
She watched him with concern, unseen, as he moved painfully and restlessly around their living quarters, picking up, putting down items at random. It was fifteen years to the day and she could tell from the pinched whiteness around his mouth that the memories were afflicting him harder this year, though he would never have admitted it. Despite their years together, he was no better at acknowledging his feelings and, undemonstrative herself, she was usually content with this. 

But when those feelings began to fester, she had to confront them; lance the poison of bitterness and defeat before it disabled him, as she had done once a year, ever since he had so inexplicably stepped off the path of reason and allowed his fears to rule his actions. She would force him to face his past again today. But not yet. He wasn't quite ready.

Sighing slightly, she withdrew again into the kitchen. He'd come to her soon enough. And she knew what she had to do to prepare for the moment. 

***  
For the fourth time he put down the vid reader, undecided as to what he wanted to read - it all seemed pointless. The day was beautiful but it was just his mind that noticed it; there was no accompanying lifting of his heart at the sight of the luminous sky, the trees with their gilding of sunlight. Only when a scent, yeasty, warmly sensuous drifted in from the kitchen did he find the energy to rouse.

"Is all this mess necessary?" he enquired irritably from the kitchen door, noting the pots, the butter wrappers, strewn, empty packages. 

"Yes," she replied briefly, bending to the oven, removing the hot steaming loaves deftly with gloved hands. "Oh yes, I think it is. You know it is." 

Irresolutely, he watched as she tipped the bread from their tins and placed them on racks to cool. The smell was enticing, a promise of satisfaction and simple pleasures and despite himself he felt himself relax, even smile inwardly at the old-fashioned approach to domesticity she had adopted to help her heal. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek and he moved to her, capturing her face with his hand, wiping the smudge away with his thumb. They stood like that for several seconds, frozen in a moment of shared companionship. Her hair, once so blonde, now spilled silver down her back but her sturdy practicality, her refusal to bow under the burden of life was still a source of strength. 

Sensing his returning energy, she stepped back so she could look sternly at him, engaging his gaze and refusing to let him pull away from hers. She waited calmly, holding the gaze, until she saw the tentative question form in the weary eyes.

" Get your stick," she answered. "It is time."

 

***  
The trees cast cool shadows as they climbed, him leaning on his stick, she carrying her basket with its three freshly baked loaves. The fact that it was so painful to walk was welcome to him, a penance; like one of the pilgrims of old, journeying on their knees to holy places he too sought forgiveness through pain. His eyes fixed firmly on the ground, his focus narrowed to the patch of earth he trod on, knowing each tree root, each awkward hollow, each rock with an intimacy that suggested this was a frequently travelled path, though in fact it was a year since he had last walked it. 

Now he knew, yet refused to see, they were passing the metal bones of the rusting ship, the scars it had left on the landscape still visible. Many breathless metres later, he reasoned the stones, broken pot and fragments of rotting wood, all that might remain of the hut that had sheltered them that last night but he still kept his eyes firmly fixed to the square of earth beneath his feet. Yet all too soon, the bare earth changed to the crumbling remains of a road and reluctantly he shuffled towards the entrance to the underground silo, hidden now by the rampant growth of brambles and weeds, smelling rankly of mould.

Tiny flies danced incessantly around the spot and he drew back from their onslaught but she took his arm, urging him forward, stopping before the painted iron door, it's peeling red just visible through the curtain of vegetation. His stomach rebelled at the sight, the bile burning in his throat. Faintly he heard them calling, accusing, the ghosts of this deserted place and felt the band tighten around his chest, his breathing constrict. The beat of his heart thudded alarms and the world turned red.

**  
She watched, dispassionately, for a while, allowing him to feel his distress, only placing a cool hand under his arm when he seemed to sway, steadying him with her younger strength. Then, as the sun began its descent, she placed her basket on the ground and broke a piece from the first loaf.

"Here! " she said gently and reluctantly, he took the fragment she held out to him, the rising green smell of it tickling his nostrils, and placed it in his mouth, chewing slowly.

Now she raised a piece herself, repeating the words of the ancient ritual, it's original meaning long lost yet so tailored to their need - a ritual she had discovered on that first, dreadful anniversary and which had, as Orac predicted, stemmed the destructive rush of his despair.

"The bread of affliction," she recited formally and he swallowed the mouthful, bitter with its flavouring of herbs. 

Carefully she broke a piece from the second loaf and handed it to him. "The bread of hope," she affirmed.

Again he chewed, and noted this time how the bitter taste gave way to honeyed sweetness as the morsels slid down his throat.

Serenely, the sun a shining halo behind her neatly braided head, she waited until he had swallowed and then broke a piece from her third and final loaf.

"The bread of possibilities," she promised, and he placed it in his mouth, savouring, unwillingly, the complex rich flavours of its spices and dried fruits. 

Unbidden, but expected, the tears came then, coursing down his cheeks as he swallowed the last, tiny piece and she waited again, not acknowledging the tears, simply standing beside him until they stopped. 

Then she took his hand and together they walked back to the house, moving more freely and, if not joyously, at least with a measure of peace in their hearts; turning their backs on their past for another year, as the shadows lengthened around them and the sky blazed with gold.


End file.
